


you got me, and i got you (couldn't stop this if we wanted to)

by jolie_unfiltrd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Make 'Em Bang 2018, Mirror Sex, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 09:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Jon glanced up and his lip curled in distaste. “Stark,” he nearly growled, lifting his beer to acknowledge her before gulping the last of it, curling his free hand into a fist. Robb’s face shot up from where he was nuzzling Jeyne’s neck at the sound of his surname, before seeing that Sansa had walked up and rolling his eyes. Theon merely sniggered.“Snow,” she sniffed derisively, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her lower belly - rather unsuccessfully, judging by the flush spreading across her collarbone. That fucker. He had no right to turn her on with those damned dark eyes and stupid curls pulled back into a smart bun at the back of his head.---Modern Wedding AU where Sansa is drunk and thirsty AF for Jon's body, Jon is suppressing his feelings rather unsuccessfully, Arya tries to convince them to play nice for the weekend, and Theon is, well, Theon.(fic title from "unpredictable" by olly murs.)





	you got me, and i got you (couldn't stop this if we wanted to)

Sansa sauntered up to the table, wobbling slightly in her towering heels and sipping on her French 75 with a determined air. The intention for the night _had_ been to stay completely sober, to be fresh and chipper and the absolute best maid-of-honor for tomorrow’s bound-to-be extravagant ceremony. But, well, Yara was bartending her own rehearsal dinner, and while Sansa and Margaery had been discussing the ceremony’s highlights that had been added last minute - 

“I thought you were releasing doves, Marg?” 

“Darling, doves are so last year. We’ve imported birds-of-paradise for the occasion.” 

\- they had been unfortunately sitting at the bar, directly in front of Yara. 

Look, Sansa was as happy as anyone that they had found each other. And she was thrilled that they had an active, adventurous sex life. But gods, did they have to do that in front of her? Margaery was practically leaning over the bar in an effort to straddle her fiancee, licking her lips lasciviously and it seemed Yara had no objections to setting out a case of beer on the bar in order to fuck the brunette in the back room before speeches even began. 

Once Margaery had started murmuring about “that thing Yara does with her tongue” and meowing at her, Sansa had done the reasonable thing, interrupted her by slamming a firm hand on the countertop, and asked Yara for “all the alcohol you have, please.” 

Yara had made her five different drinks, set them behind the bar, and dragged Margaery off to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what and Sansa promptly changed her mind. She wished they had been _celibate_ until the wedding because then maybe she wouldn’t be trying to bleach her memory with an amount of alcohol that could fell a small bear. 

She’d spotted Arya’s dark hair and wiggled her way away from Loras and Renly’s far too enthusiastic grinding that mostly ended up in them motorboating her, trying to make out over her shoulder and failing because she’s at least three inches taller than them - barefoot, let alone in these six-inch _beauties_. 

Too late, she noticed that while the table was surrounded by her loves, her favorites, her family - Arya, Robb, Bran, and their respective sweethearts - her arch nemesis occupied the farthest seat. A suit darker than midnight, casually unbuttoned at the top, hung too well on his broad shoulders. And honestly, how _dare_ he? He had no right to look delectable. Not today. Not when she hasn’t been properly shagged in _months_ and she’s just this side of drunk and wearing her laciest underthings because a certain someone (Margaery) promised that someone (Dickon Tarly, that _dreamboat_ ) would be here and ready to shag and - lo and behold - when she walked in, he was already draped all over one of Margaery’s cousins like a damn octopus. 

Jon glanced up and his lip curled in distaste. “Stark,” he nearly growled, lifting his beer to acknowledge her before gulping the last of it, curling his free hand into a fist. Robb’s face shot up from where he was nuzzling Jeyne’s neck at the sound of his surname, before seeing that Sansa had walked up and rolling his eyes. Theon merely sniggered. 

“Snow,” she sniffed derisively, trying to ignore the heat pooling in her lower belly - rather unsuccessfully, judging by the flush spreading across her collarbone. That _fucker_. He had no right to turn her on with those damned dark eyes and stupid curls pulled back into a smart bun at the back of his head. 

“Gods,” groaned Arya, pulling a flask out from the thigh holster under her dress, “aren’t you two idiots over this stupid grudge yet?”

Gendry merely raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “You still aren’t over the time Hot Pie didn’t recognize you on Halloween.” 

“We’ve been friends for years!”

“You were in a Chewbacca costume,” he said incredulously. 

“You were Han Solo! You know what, that’s not the point.” Arya elbowed him roughly in the side, jostling his beer and glaring pointedly at Jon and Sansa. “The point is that you two are making the rest of us uncomfortable, so just like, I don’t know, play nice for the weekend.” 

Sansa pursed her lips and stared at Jon, considering the proposal. He nodded slowly, biting his lip. 

“Alright, then. Just for the weekend.” 

“Fine, whatever. Cheers!” Sansa said, before snatching Arya’s flask and downing a few gulps of her cherished whiskey before choking. This could only go well. She was getting drunk, Jon was doing that smolder thing that simultaneously made her want to slap him and sit on his face, and they’d agreed to play nice. 

Shit. 

\---

Midnight found the Stark family straggling back to their respective hotel rooms. Robb had already puked twice, but rallied valiantly and was trying to show off his Manly Man Strength to his girlfriend by lifting all the potted trees in the hallways. Jeyne was weeping over a YouTube video she watched about puppies and kittens who are best friends and paying zero attention to Robb’s antics. Somehow, Theon had managed to charm the pants off of two of Margaery’s bridesmaids and the three had disappeared hours ago with a lecherous grin. Gendry had Arya slung over his shoulder, smacking her ass and laughing outrageously each time she demanded to be put down immediately or else. Or else what, he would say, trying to remember which hotel room was theirs as they wandered through the halls. 

None of them, bless them, were wondering where Sansa and Jon had gotten off to, and thank the gods for that. 

\---

**ROOM 302**

She wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, to be honest. The last thing she knew, they were walking down the hallway arguing about something stupid, and less than a heartbeat later, Jon had pressed her against the nearest wall and kissed her hard, merciless in his demands, raking his hands up and down her arms, around her back, under her arse as he drew moans from her mouth and ground his hips into her own.

Two heartbeats after that, she’d been bent over the bathroom counter, his lips dancing down her spine and hips pressed into hers insistently, a welcome heat pooling between her legs. 

“Fuck me, Snow, I swear to god-“ She would have been embarrassed, any other time, at how plaintive she sounded, how she was nearly begging for him - Jon! of all people! - to shove his cock into her. She should have been embarrassed, maybe, at how quickly he had gotten her up against the bathroom counter, her hands splayed on the marble and her eyes locked on his in the mirror, panting at the feel of his hands dragging slowly up her thighs, pushing her dress up and up and over her voluptuous hips, at the feel of his lips against her neck, at the feel of his cock pressing between her arse cheeks.

His dark chuckle against her neck, followed by a kiss that was sure to leave a bruise come morning, caused a shiver to run down her spine. “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?”

Sansa, who had never been called a little thing in her life and was still currently wearing her heels, could only respond by arching her bum into him as he traced a rough finger over the edges of her lingerie, biting her lip as he shot her a stern look in the mirror. “You were wearing these for someone else tonight, weren’t you?” 

She nodded, a mischievous smile crossing her lips. “Well, I certainly wasn’t wearing them for you - oh!” A yelp escaped her lips as his hand roughly spanked her arse, before both hands came around to the front of her dress, easing it down so that he could trace his fingertips over her hardened nipples, pressing the lean planes of his body against hers. 

“Are you sure about that?” he murmured, grinning wickedly as her eyes fluttered closed and her hips pressed back into him wantonly. “I’ve seen the way you look at me, Stark.” 

“Ah, and what way-“ she inhaled sharply as one of his marvelous hands started to lightly trace the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “-what way is that?” 

“Like you want to _eat_ me.” Her eyes flickered up to his in surprise. She hadn’t thought she’d been so transparent in her confusion between wanting him to fuck off and wanting him to fuck her and maybe wanting him to fuck him with her mouth and - _dammit Sansa_.

“Oh, don’t worry, Stark, your secret is safe with me.” He dropped to his knees behind her and licked up the lace covering her cunt, hands holding her shaking thighs apart. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to taste you first.” 

She swallowed audibly and dropped to her elbows, groaning as he eased aside the lace and started to lave his tongue along her folds, concentrating on her clit until she was nearly vibrating with need, and only slightly afraid she was going to drown him in her juices. The noises coming from between her legs were just… _obscene_ , and she was a _good girl_ and good girls didn’t do _this_ and _oh my god_. Jon dipped his tongue into her cunt, canting her hips backwards into his face and groaning at the taste of her. 

Sansa spread her legs wider and dropped her head into the mirror, letting the cold surface tether her to reality. Jon was _going down_ on her. Jon _Snow_ was eating her out. Jon Snow was _feasting on her cunt_. And by the sounds of it, he was loving every minute as much as she was.

“Jon,” she gasped, “please -“ 

Her hips were pushing back into his face of their own accord, chasing her peak but needing more friction, more of his filthy words growled against her.

“Please, Jon, I need -“ She writhed against him, bucking her hips against his face, so fucking close that her legs were shaking and she could barely stand, grateful for the way his arms wrapped around her thighs. He sucked hard on her clit and her vision swam.

“Come for me, Sansa,” he growled into her cunt as he pushed two fingers into her tight, hot heat, licking through her folds and biting lightly on her clit and - 

everything went white, for a moment, as the orgasm rolled through her body in shockwaves, cresting and crashing and her heels lifted out of her shoes and her fists clenched and she wondered why the French called it _la petite morte_ when she’s never felt more _alive_. 

As she came down from her high, Jon was simply standing behind her and rubbing her hips gently, just enough pressure in his touch to keep her from bucking away, a smug smirk in permanent residence on his lips. 

“Oh, do shut up,” she groaned, letting her face drop back onto the marble countertop, and shoulders slump as she regained feeling in her legs. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“You didn’t have to,” she rolled her eyes. She tried to curl her toes under experimentally. No dice. 

Jon grinned again before running a hand down the swell of her spine. “You’re…” he sounded hesitant for the first time since he backed her up against the hotel room door and kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

Sansa looked up at him through her tousled hair, mussed lipstick, smudged eyeliner. Dress around her waist, tits out and lacy underwear completely soaked through- she felt less than gorgeous, she felt debauched and filthy and heavenly. But his face was open and honest, eyes filled with admiration and desire and pride. 

“Oh, you think so?” She turned around, slid the remnants of her lingerie down her legs, unzipped her dress and perched herself up on the countertop, legs spread wide, fuck-me-heels still firmly on her feet.

“Oh, do shut up,” he said mockingly, even as he stepped in-between her legs with a lascivious grin, shedding his dress shirt and casually undoing his trousers.

Sansa only wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, licking along his jawline until his eyes fluttered closed and his cock jumped against her thigh. 

“Make me,” she whispered as her lips found the sensitive skin behind his ear and he groaned, pulling back lightly to guide himself inside of her, achingly slowly, teasing and teasing until he couldn’t possibly resist the allure of her tight cunt any longer.

He sheathed himself inside of her, eyes dark with promise, murmuring: “Gladly.” 

—

Theon flushed as the two girls in front of him kissed each cheek, a bashful grin crossing his face as they thanked him, again and again, for sitting and talking with them. He quietly co-ran the sexual assault awareness committee at the college, and both girls had shown up to a few meetings, sat in the back, and left quickly. When they saw him that night at the rehearsal, they asked if they could find somewhere to sit and talk for a while. He agreed immediately, grabbing a coffee and donuts from the late night bar that he had helped Yara set-up earlier that day. 

Sure, he had waggled his eyebrows and insinuated a few things about what a lech he was as he departed the Stark clan - but let no one say Theon Greyjoy was not a gentleman, at heart. 

Just, like, deep down. 

Really, really deep down. 

He smiled and gave the girls his email if they ever wanted to come to another meeting, then cast a glance around the hallway to make sure no one had noticed the trade of his normal lecherous grin for something more genuine. The hotel room shut gently behind him and he yawned, fully intent on making his way to his room for a solid night’s sleep before the ridiculous ceremony timeline that Margaery had planned for the next day. 

Whistling lightly, he tucked his hands into his pockets and made his way down the hallway, towards the room that he and Jon Snow had cashed in on together for the weekend. Drawing his keycard out of his pocket, he paused, cocking his head to the side. 

Surely not. 

That couldn’t be - someone moaning? 

He scoffed for a moment at himself. He must be imagining things; the combination of Yara’s bartending lessons (which had mostly involved drinking the things he made) and sugary coffee must be interacting as a hallucinogenic effect. The day that broody boy got laid, Satan himself would lace up his ice skates. 

Theon shook his head, chuckling, as he sipped the keycard and entered the room. 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Jon!” 

“Greyjoy!” shouted Jon, as he scrambled to pull a pillow over his crotch and simultaneously throw a sheet over whatever poor girl he was screwing in such an… ambitious position. Theon winced as Jon turned his back: those scratches looked fresh and painful, though he wasn’t sure the sulk master extraordinaire would notice them until the next morning. 

“Theon?” Bright blue eyes peeped out from behind Jon’s shoulder, and Theon only wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh. _Of course_. Jon’s growl when he first saw her that evening, the clenched fist a la Mr. Darcy, Sansa had been just drunk enough to stop hiding her obvious thirst for the dark-haired boy… he was only annoyed they hadn’t waited one more night to get their jollies off. 

He owed Margaery fifty quid now. 

“Damn, Sansa, if I’d known you had tits like that-” 

WHAM. 

—- 

Arya beckoned Theon over to the Stark table the minute he was free from his best-man duties at the reception, slamming her hands on the table as he slid into a chair next to her and the table collectively let out a gasp. 

“Theon, what happened to your _face_?” 

“Shit, man, that looks terrible.” 

“Who did this to you?” asked Robb, jaw clenching and ready for a fist fight, nearly bouncing in his seat in his eagerness to beat up whoever did this to his best mate. 

“Oh, uh,” Theon rubbed the back of his neck and cast a glance to Sansa and Jon, swaying in each other’s arms on the dance floor. “One of the girls I was with last night accidentally elbowed me in the face mid-bone.” 

“Mid-bone?” Arya groaned, even as she slid him her flask in sympathy. “Who says that? How old are you, twelve?” 

Robb looked relieved, Gentry smirked, and the table was glad to switch topics. Unfortunately, that topic was the couple on the dance floor, who were somehow managing to dance and simultaneously argue in hushed whispers. 

“You know, I really wish they’d get over this grudge,” said Robb, thoughtfully sipping his ale and pondering how he could get the two to make up and be friends. 

“They think this is playing nice?” Arya gestured to how they were angrily pointing fingers at each other, Sansa’s lips were pursed and Jon’s eyes rolled in annoyance at the redhead in his arms. “Look at them!” 

“I don’t even know what the grudge is about,” Gendry said, looking around at the group and receiving only shrugs. “Maybe they should look at it from another angle?” he suggested. 

Theon nearly choked on his drink, picturing the angle he had seen them going at it the night before. “I don’t think the angle is the issue,” he murmured. 

—-

“Your hair looks nice that way,” offered Jon, gesturing to the way Sansa’s hair was curled and laid carefully around her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. 

“My hair _had_ to be this way because someone has _no self-control_ and insisted on leaving a _necklace_ of bite marks around my neck.” 

Jon couldn’t help himself - a lascivious grin flashed across his face, about to say that she hadn't been protesting the night before before Sansa started in on him again. 

“I had to explain this to Margaery’s grandmother, who was insistent that we all wear our hair up but the make-up artist said there was, and I quote, _absolutely no way in hell she could cover that up without a full lace collar_ , end quote, Jonathan.” 

“Ooh, Jonathan, I feel like I’m in trouble.” 

She glared at him in complete silence as he continued to twirl her around the dance floor. 

“Yeah, okay. I’m in trouble. I don’t know why I said that.” 

Sansa sniffed haughtily and refused to look at him, narrowing her eyes as Theon sat down at their family table. His black eye really did look terrible. Funnily enough, those self-defense classes had been a gift from Theon. At least now he knew they were worth every penny, she supposed. Her right hook had massively improved over the last six months. 

“What about these scratch marks down my back? Isn’t that some sort of payback?” 

“Oh, those,” she waved them off airily. “No one can see those.” 

“My dress shirt is _sticking_ to them.” She winced sympathetically. That did sound painful. But he did look very, very delicious in his dark suit and casually unbuttoned white shirt. Sacrifices must be made for beauty, she supposed. Still, she ought to be nice about it… 

“Poor baby, do you want me to kiss it better?” Sansa asked mockingly. 

“As a matter of fact, I have a better idea. You could play nurse and bandage me up?” His eyebrows waggled suggestively as as spark appeared in his already fairly mischievous eyes. 

A flush spread it’s way over Sansa’s chest as she carefully maneuvered them over to the edge of the dance floor, whispering in Jon’s ear: “You don’t think anyone would notice if we slipped away for a moment, right?”

“Definitely not.” 

—-

Theon, meanwhile, was at the front desk of the hotel. 

“So, sir, you’re asking for the room farthest away from room 302, is that correct?” 

“Yes, that’s right.” 

“I’m sorry, sir, the only other available room we have is adjacent to the honeymoon suite where your sister and her bride are staying.” 

Theon swore under his breath. “Goddammit.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this beast of a one-shot that somehow got away from me! constructive crit is always, always welcome <3 (there's also a brooklyn 99 reference in this fic, tell me if you can find it!) 
> 
> you can join me on tumblr @ jolieunfiltrd for jonsa trash and now the last jedi trash too because I FINALLY GOT TO WATCH IT and i have a lot of feelings which like, don't i always? about everything? 
> 
> PEACE


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